Into the Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  The fiancée was still carrying a torch and the brothers still had hopes of turning Rahman Lincoln Mercury into Rahman Lincoln Mercury BMW.

  So what was Ihbraham doing with Mary Lou?

  Obviously, he was sniffing out an easy target—looking for an easy lay. And there was no doubt about it. Mary Lou Starrett was ripe and ready for the picking, thanks to her husband’s neglect.

  She got into her car, and Husaam followed her along the same route she always took to her baby-sitter’s house, letting her get way ahead of him. There was no chance she’d see him. None at all.

  He was going to have to make it clear that if Mary Lou wanted some extramarital sex, she wouldn’t have to look to the hired help. He was willing to do whatever he needed to do—even sleep with her, what a hardship—to make sure Rahman didn’t mess up this operation.

  It was bad enough when Mary Lou had sent her car in to have the trunk lid replaced. His clients had been ready to bolt after she’d discovered one of the weapons he’d put in the trunk of her car.

  But Husaam doubted she was bright enough to put two and two together and come up with a plan to assassinate the U.S. President. Still, if she told someone else what she had seen…

  But she hadn’t told anyone. He was willing to bet his reputation and his very life on that—and even use her and her car as a delivery vehicle one last time, even though her trunk now locked.

  A lock wasn’t much of a problem in the first place, and it was less of a problem because he now had a key.

  No doubt about it, this was going to be some of the sweetest, easiest money he’d ever earned.

  Muldoon woke up alone in Joan’s bed.

  He could hear the sound of the shower running. Light was coming in through a crack in the curtains, and when he turned to look, the clock on the bedside table read 5:24 A.M.

  Hello, morning after.

  He briefly closed his eyes. Please, God, let this time be different.

  He’d woken up shortly after 0200 to find Joan sprawled bonelessly on the bed beside him, her head on his shoulder, her hand resting almost possessively over his heart.

  That was the time—were she just some random woman he’d met in a bar—that he would have slipped out of the bed, put on his clothes, and left, leaving his phone number if she’d mentioned she’d be in town for a few days, or just a note—It was fun—if she’d made it clear right from the start that there would be no tomorrow.

  Only rarely did he stay until dawn. He’d learned the hard way that the morning after could be fraught with all kinds of peril and pain.

  The morning after was the part where he either had to leave or be left. It was the time in which there would be a slight change in the voice of last night’s warm lover. There might be a second or two of uncomfortable silence before she cleared her throat and spoke just a shade too politely, or maybe a tad too cheerfully.

  Either way, he’d learned that it meant that the night—and their brief relationship—was over.

  Was it any wonder that he’d made it his MO to leave before being shown the door?

  At 0210, he’d gotten up to go to the bathroom, careful not to wake Joan. Or so he’d thought. When he came back into the bedroom and climbed into bed—no way was he leaving her until he absolutely had to—she’d snuggled up against him, resuming her same position with her head on his shoulder.

  Only her hand had slipped down to his stomach and then lower and…

  Muldoon lay there now, tangled in the sheets, smiling up at the ceiling. He should be tired after a night with so little sleep, but really, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt better.

  He had two immediate options. Stay here in bed until Joan got out of the bathroom, or go in there, maybe join her in the shower.

  Getting it on in the shower would put an entirely new spin on the concept of a morning after. It would be the Energizer Bunny version of the morning after—where the night before just kept on going and going.

  He got out of bed, aware that he’d run out of condoms. He’d tucked only a small handful into his jacket pocket before leaving his apartment, but they’d used them all.

  Yes, all. Give me an A, give me an L, give me another L, what does that spell? A night filled with a mind-blowing amount of laughter and heart-stopping pleasure.

  If there was any getting it on to be done yet this morning, they were going to have to improvise. Unless Joan had some…

  When he got to the bathroom, the shower had gone off, but he knocked on the door anyway, trying the knob.

  Unlocked. He pushed the door open.

  Joan was drying herself with one of those oversized hotel towels, and when she saw him looking in, she quickly wrapped it around herself. “You’re awake.”

  Modesty. In the time-tested language of the typical bummer morning after, rediscovered modesty was never a positive sign.

  Still, Joan had spent one night with Muldoon, and thirty years’ worth of nights thinking that she was a whole lot less than perfect. It made sense that it might take her some time to adjust to his more accurate reality.

  He pointed to the toilet. “Mind if I…?”

  “Oh,” she said. “No. Not at all.” She took her hairbrush and, still wrapped in her towel, left him alone in the bathroom.

  Also not a good sign. Nor was the fact that she completely failed to comment on his body’s rather obvious good morning message.

  He flushed the toilet.

  To shower or not to shower?

  If he showered, she might expect him to put his clothes on and shuffle on out the door. As long as he had bed head and was buck naked, she couldn’t kick him out so easily.

  Could she?

  Oh, screw this trying to second-guess every little last thing Joan was thinking. Muldoon went out into the bedroom where she’d turned on the TV to Fox’s cable news. He turned it off.

  “Hey, I was listening to that.” She was wearing her robe and was putting a pair of panty hose on her killer legs.

  “Am I going to get to see you again tonight?” he asked, point-blank.

  She sighed. Oh, damn. Sighs were definitely bad signs.

  But then she laughed, thank God. At least he hoped it was the right kind of laughter. Sure enough, though, she finally seemed to be looking directly at him, and even noting his physical condition, which although having waned significantly was still pretty obviously revved up.

  “You can see me all day if you want to come along to this meeting that starts in thirty minutes,” she said. “But somehow I think, from rather obvious clues, that see is a euphemism for something that involves body parts other than eyeballs.”

  “I want to see you tonight,” he said. “And yes, not only do I want to see you with my eyes, I want to taste you and touch you and make you come at least three different ways.”

  That caught her attention. And so much for his waning physical condition.

  “You’re making this really hard for me.” Joan didn’t look happy. “Mike, I already decided…”

  Oh, shit. Decisions had been made. “You decided what?”

  Another sigh. “That we cool it until after the President’s visit. I mean, come on. I’m sleeping with the President’s daughter’s boyfriend,” she said. “This is not a smart career move.”

  “I’m not anyone’s boyfriend,” he said, aware that his words were pathetically true. He’d hoped, after last night, that he and Joan…

  But no. What was wrong with him? This was old news. He’d seen it plenty of times before. He was drawn to women like Joan. Strong women. Career women. Women who saw him as a temporary diversion, a short-term plaything instead of a legitimate boyfriend.

  Legitimate boyfriends were corporate CEOs or the attorney general or a vice president at Microsoft. Legitimate boyfriends were not Navy SEALs.

  Not once in his life had he ever been taken home to meet his lover’s parents. Not once.

  So, yeah. Cooling it for the next week for the sake of Joan’s career was nothing new. I
n fact, any shrink worth his fee would tell Muldoon that he sought out this type of women. He was only attracted to the kind of women who would beat the crap out of him emotionally, if he were dumb enough to wait around for it.

  “Today the entire world is going to watch that video clip of you and Brooke from last night,” she told him. “They’re already showing it. I’m really lucky they don’t have additional footage of you and me in the Ladybug Lounge. Sweet God above, what was I thinking? Not that I’m regretting last night,” she hastily added. “But making out in a bar isn’t appropriate behavior for a member of the President’s staff—never mind the fact that you’re—”

  “Okay,” he interrupted. “Okay. Say we cool it for a week. Then what?”

  “Then I’m on vacation,” she said, as if that answered everything.

  “For two weeks,” he clarified.

  “That’s right.”

  He shook his head. “There’s no guarantee I’ll be around for those two weeks.” In fact, he knew Operation Black Lagoon would be happening shortly after the President’s visit. He could very well be gone for most of that time. But he couldn’t tell Joan that. He couldn’t mention the op at all. “If I do have to leave town, I probably won’t have time to call you to tell you about it. So if I suddenly disappear, you need to know that I’m not just blowing you off, okay?”

  Her eyes had widened. “Are you telling me that you’re going to Afghanistan?”

  “No. Joan. God. I’m not telling you anything. I can’t tell you anything. I’m…Look, what if we see each other this week, but we’re really discreet? You know, careful that no one sees us together and—”

  “That’s a given,” she said. “No matter if it’s now or a week from now. I have to think about what it looks like, and it’s going to look like I’m sleeping with the President’s daughter’s boyfriend.”

  “Who cares what it looks like? It’s not the truth—”

  “I care,” Joan told him. “I would care what it looks like even if Brooke weren’t in the picture. Even if her senator friend announced he wasn’t going to be Bryant’s running mate, that he wasn’t running for reelection, that he was divorcing his bitchy wife and marrying Brooke. Even then, I’d be extremely careful about our relationship. Have you looked into a mirror lately, Michael? If we showed up in public with our hands all over each other, people are going to wonder what the hell a beautiful young man like you is doing with me.”

  He shook his head. “That’s ridiculous—”

  “No, it’s not. To be frank and to the point, I don’t want them thinking about me like that—wondering if I’m that good in bed, or if I pay you, or if there’s some other kind of favor that I’m—”

  “Maybe they’ll think that you’re fun to be with,” he said. “Maybe they’ll think—”

  “Look, Michael, I’m sorry about this, but I honestly don’t know what to do about us. It’s freaking me out. Yes, I want to see you again. I really do. But I don’t think it can be until—”

  “Next week,” he finished for her. “Okay. Yeah. I hear you. I don’t like it, but I’ll respect your decision. You know, call me if you change your mind and all that, but…”

  “Please don’t be angry. Last night was—”

  “Great. I know. I thought so, too.” He started pulling on his clothes, bed head be damned. He didn’t want to hear this. He’d heard this kind of speech before. Next week would come, and she wouldn’t call him. Or, shoot, maybe she would. And maybe he’d be in town for a few days during her vacation and he’d get laid again. But eventually she’d have to go back to Washington, and that would be that.

  End of story.

  He should have left at 0200.

  “I have to get over to the base,” he told her as he jammed his feet into his shoes and raked his hair down with his fingers, looking into the same mirror that they’d both looked into just last night and…“Good luck with your meeting.” Good luck with your life. Thanks for sharing a night of it. Too bad it wasn’t more.

  “It’s just a week,” she said. She actually looked genuinely upset. Or maybe she was just a good actress.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Sure. I’ll, um, wait for your call.” And he would. Like the fool that he was.

  “I’ll see you later this afternoon,” she said. “There’s a meeting about the President’s visit. I’ll be there.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I’m…Steve’s taking care of that.”

  “Why?”

  Because Muldoon was going to ask him to. “I don’t know. I guess he’s more knowledgeable.”

  “Mike—”

  “Look, I really have to go.” He headed for the door.

  She followed, and clearly her anxiety about whether or not anyone saw him coming out of her room took priority over whatever it was she had been about to say. “Don’t let anyone see you leave.”

  “I’m a SEAL,” he said. He wanted to kiss her good-bye, but he was afraid if he did he might start to cry—which would embarrass him to death as well as take some of the punch out of his exit line. “I think I can probably handle it.”

  The phone rang just a little after noon, and Charlie picked it up, knowing it was Joan.

  “I don’t have long to talk,” her granddaughter said, “but I didn’t want you to think I’ve been ignoring you.”

  “We know you’ve been busy—we’ve been watching the news.”

  “Yeah.” Joan changed the subject. “How’s Donny?”

  “Much better,” Charlie said. “Vince is still checking in on him every day. Did you know your father’s been sending him email?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Joan said. “Whoa, that’s a surprise. I mean, Tony-the-bonehead’s emailed me a few times this month. He even left a message on my answering machine last week. But I never in a million years would have expected him to get in touch with Don.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” Charlie said mildly. “He’s your father. It’s disrespectful.”

  “Walking out on Mommy didn’t exactly make him worthy of my respect,” Joan countered. “Oh, and getting angry at Donny the way he used to? That really helped. Shout at him louder, Dad. Maybe that’ll cure his mental illness.”

  “Cut him a little slack,” Charlie said. “It wasn’t easy being Donny’s parent—you have to admit that.”

  “Mom managed.”

  “Some people are simply better equipped to deal with tragedy than others.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t call you up to argue about Tony,” Joan said. “I am in one snarling bad mood so I should probably just tell you that I love you and get off the phone.”

  “What happened?” Charlie asked. “Other than what’s been on the news, that is.”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Not that I believe any of the things that have been reported. I’m waiting with baited breath for this press conference that’s going to be held this afternoon.”

  “Yes,” Joan told her. “Me, too. It’s nice to know that something good has come out of this mess. Brooke recognized how badly she screwed up last night, and she’s actually going to make a public apology. She’s announcing that she’s leaving immediately to check in to the Betty Ford Center. This is her choice, Gram. No one’s sending her away. This is really, finally what she wants to do.”

  “Alleluia,” Charlie said. “One would think from that news your mood wouldn’t include any snarling at all.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “So what else happened last night?”

  “Nothing,” Joan said.

  “You slept with him,” Charlie guessed. “Your lieutenant.”

  “Oh, God, Gramma…!”

  “I’m not supposed to talk to you about things that matter?”

  “Well, yeah, but not about that. You’re supposed to think, I don’t know…that I’m still a virgin because, well, because I’m not married.”

  Charlie snorted with laughter. “I happen to know, my dearest, that you haven’t been a virgi
n since you were a teenager. I believe his name was Nathan? You brought him to your aunt Wendy’s birthday party.”

  “Oh, my God! You knew?”

  “Who do you think put that box of condoms in the top drawer of your dresser?” Charlie asked. “Old people aren’t necessarily idiots.”

  “I know that, but I thought…I don’t know what I thought. That Nate bought them and put them there? Like, hint, hint. I just…I mean, I knew it wasn’t Mom. She was clueless—she had no idea what was going on with me. She was, you know, dealing with Donny.”

  They were both silent for a moment, then Charlie said, “I never talked to my mother about anything that mattered. I wish I had, but she died when I was quite young, too. Before I was married. And then after I was married…Do you remember your great-grandmother Edna? She died when you were five.”

  “Yeah,” Joan said. “But…wait a minute. Now I’m confused. I thought she was your mother, not Gramps’s.”

  “She was my first husband James’s mother,” Charlie told her. “Edna Fletcher.”

  Joan laughed. “I had no idea.”

  “I used to talk to her all the time,” Charlie admitted. She still missed Edna. To this day. “We talked about all sorts of things. In fact, the first time Vince and I…well, long story short, we made love before we were married—shame on us—and we did it in the same bed James and I had slept in, just down the hall from my mother-in-law’s bedroom. The walls were so thin in that apartment, she had to know what we were up to.”

  “Oh, God, you’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Afterward I had something of a…breakdown, I guess you’d call it nowadays,” she continued. “Vince thought—of course, because he was an honorable man—that since we’d done what we’d done, we’d rush right out and get married immediately. He loved me very much, I knew that—but I couldn’t deal with anything I was feeling about him and about James…And I was so sure that Vince was going to go back to the war and die and…I knew I couldn’t bear that.”